Morpheus
by Raven25
Summary: In a different version of Legacy, Jack has come to save Daniel.


My name is Daniel Jackson. I'm thirty-five years old. I was born in Cairo in 1965. My wife's name is Sha're.  
  
Simple things. Simple words, simple phrases, simple truths. Simple things to hang on to in the midst of the nightmare.  
  
Daniel woke with no way of knowing the time of the day or night. He kept his eyes closed. As soon as he opened them, he knew what happen. Blurry, soft whiteness would fill his vision, fill his world, and try to choke him with its inevitability. It was always like this. It had always been like this. It would always be like this.  
  
And then the door would open, and it would begin again. Daniel never knew if he preferred the door to be open or locked fast shut. For when it was open, they came; when it was closed, he was trapped, but he was safe.  
  
Behind closed lids, Daniel could predict it all. They were coming, they were bringing what they always brought, they were opening the door, they were trying to pretend this was a normal and sane way to behave. They were forcing him to open his eyes. They were stabbing his veins with the long needles. They were waiting for the drugs to take effect. And then they were gone.  
  
That was when Daniel awoke, to be dragged under again by the drugs. In the corners of the room, he could see what he always saw. The hallucinations that had brought him here were not letting him be now he was here. The drugs made no difference to them. They were as much a part of Daniel's life as this blurry white room.  
  
How much time had passed? How much time since that last planet? How much time since the Linveriss? How much time since the sight of sunshine and blue skies?  
  
There was no way of knowing. Just as there was no way of knowing the time of night or day. There was no way of knowing anything.  
  
And that was why Daniel came to recite to himself the things he already knew. My name is Daniel Jackson…  
  
There were the histories of distant lands, the rise and fall of empires, the crying voices of slaves and the written words of kings. There were languages, ancient and modern, the keys to understanding the past. There was everything an archaeologist had known.  
  
And then came the names of the gods of the past Daniel knew so well, Egyptian, Roman, and Greek mythology. The sun god Ra, the serpent god Apophis, and the god of death, Sokar. Roman gods were different. Jupiter, king of them all, and then many more, Juno, Saturn, Bacchus, Mars, Mercury…  
  
Greek gods and goddesses. Zeus, son of Cronos, his wife, Hera, and his many sons and daughters, Apollo, Athene, Artemis, Dionysus, and after that, Daniel's old favourite, Morpheus. God of dreams, but not, Daniel thought with bitter irony, god of nightmares…  
  
Daniel knew his thoughts were taking the same path they always did. They were the half-sane, half-crazed thoughts of a man half-driven to madness. They were the same thoughts he thought every day. And there was also that one thought that shone brighter than any other, that preoccupation, that smouldering obsession that refused to fade away under hypnosis or drugs or the attentions of half a dozen gruesome hallucinations. That incantation he continued to say to himself, every day, every minute of every day.  
  
"I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy!"  
  
He was whispering this softly to himself where he lay when he first became aware of it. 'It' was something in the air. The one-time archaeologist's senses were heightened, more acute with the disembodying effects of the drugs. He could sense change in the air, suddenly. It felt almost like a breeze had drifted into the room, bringing with it the scents of a far-off place.  
  
It felt like morning had come. And he didn't know what, or why, or how – he just waited. Whatever-it-was was coming, and all he had to do was wait for it.  
  
Daniel waited. He waited patiently through that long day, the same as all the others. He waited. And in the end, the change came.  
  
The door had a window set in it. Daniel had always known it was there, and regarded it as a means of torture; the pane of glass giving a tantalising glance into the real world lost and left behind.  
  
But change came through that window. There was someone standing at it today. Someone well-known, but from another life, long, long ago.  
  
Colonel Jack O'Neill, USAF knew what he was doing. He had come to return Daniel to where he belonged. In his hands he held it all. The proof that Daniel never lost his mind. He was never schizophrenic, but was in fact a perfectly sane human being, the victim of a horrific injustice. They'd done the research. The alien influence at work was responsible for it all. They knew it all now. It had taken so long…  
  
But they knew now. That was the important thing. And he had come as soon as they knew. He had come to put things right.  
  
The door had been unlocked. Daniel rolled over, stood up and watched silently as his friend entered the white room, clipboard and pen in hand. "Jack," he said softly.  
  
"Daniel," Jack said quickly. There was a time when he would have used one of his many pet names for his young companion, but there was a barrier between them now. A barrier that could be broken, Jack was sure.  
  
"You're not crazy, Daniel," Jack said.  
  
"I know." The response was quiet and even.  
  
"I've come to get you out of here, Daniel. It's all here… it was all a mistake… misdiagnosis… I've come to take you home… Daniel…" He waved his clipboard around as he spoke, the pen hanging by a string.  
  
Daniel was silent. Jack had once been able to read his friend like a book, but things were different now. He couldn't understand the unfathomable expression in the steady blue eyes.  
  
Only Daniel himself could see what was happening within his own mind. He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. He could see escape. He could see salvation.  
  
The pen continued swinging on the string. It wasn't a ball point pen, but a fountain pen with the string wrapped around the clip. Daniel took hold of it gently in his right hand, letting the string pull off the lid.  
  
And with one smooth, fluid movement, he plunged the sharp nib downwards. It was planned. The radial arteries were sliced with neat, cut-lengthways incisions.  
  
And in a second, the old nightmare transformed into a new, shiny red one. Jack froze for one deadly second longer, not able to believe they might be too late, after all…  
  
The archaeologist's voice was gentle and perfectly calm as his life began to ebb away. "No, I'm not crazy…"  
  
Gentle words, suicidal dreams and the sharp taste of blood…  
  
They could have saved him. But salvation was washed away by ignorance and dark red blood.  
  
*fin* 


End file.
